“And you call that man unsuccessful?”
Margot hardly recognised the low, earnest tones: her quick glance downward surprised a spasm of pain on the chubby face, which she had always associated with unruffled complacency. It appeared that here also lay a hidden trouble, a secret grief carefully concealed from the world.
“Isn’t that rather a misuse of the word? A man who has gained and kept such a love can never be called a failure by any one who understands the true proportions of life. With all his monetary losses he is rich... And she is rich also... Richer than she knows.”
Margot’s hand closed impulsively on Edith’s letter and held it towards him.
“Yes, you are right. Read that, and you will see how right you are. There are no secrets in it—its just a word-photograph of Edith herself, and I’d like you to see her, as you understand so well. She’s my dearest sister, whom I admire more than anybody in the world.”
Mr Elgood took the letter without a word, and read over its contents slowly once, and then, even more slowly, a second time. When at last he had finished he still held the sheet in his hands, smoothing it out with gentle, reverent fingers.
“Yes!” he said slowly. “I can see her. She is a beautiful creature. I should like to know her in the flesh. You must introduce us to one another some day. I haven’t come across too many women like that in my life. It would be an honour to know her, to help her, if that were possible.” He sighed, and stretching out his hand laid the letter on Margot’s knee. “You are right, Miss Bright Eyes, love is a wonderful thing!”
Margot glanced at him with involuntary, girlish curiosity, the inevitable question springing to her lips before Prudence had time to order silence.
“Do you—have you—did you ever—”
The Chieftain laughed softly.